thought, picturing the crime-scene photos from Freddie Arnettâs driveway. The shattered skull. The wet bits of brain matter. Freddieâs stringy, old-manâs body, facedown, arms and legs askew. His trousers had hiked up in his sudden awkward fall, and a strip of bare skin showed just above his thin white socks; the strip on each leg was pale and hairless. Somehow that bothered Bell almost as much as did the sight of the smashed brain: that inch of skin above his socks. It was so tender, so intimate. Men like Freddie Arnett never wore shorts. So this was a part of him that only his wife, more than likely, had seen for a long, long time, maybe since he was a little boy, when he took baths on Saturday nights with his brothers, and now here it was for strangers to gawk at. Law enforcement personnel, crime-scene techsâanybody on official business could look at him without his permission. Murder was the ultimate violation, yes, but there were other violations, too, that came in its wake. Smaller, heartbreaking indignities. Such as a strip of skin between a rucked-up trouser cuff and the folded-over top of a ribbed white sock.
Fogelsong was talking again. âIâm meeting with Deputy Harrison in half an hour to coordinate the investigations. See where we stand. Iâll keep you posted.â
Bell nodded.
âBy the way,â he said, shifting his position on the couch, signaling a shift in topic, âI heard about your own little adventure. That stabbing you stumbled across in Collier County on Saturday night. Shirleyâs okay, I take it.â
âYeah. But sheâs out of control, Nick. Wonât listen to me. Goes her own way.â
âSheâll settle down.â
âYou think so?â
âI do.â
âAnyway,â Bell said, âthe homicide in Tommyâs appears to be unrelated to Freddie Arnettâs murder. Killer confessed to Deputy Sturm at the scene. Weâre checking on his whereabouts Thursday nightâbut this one seems tied up nice and neat. No loose ends. Not about who did it, that is. There are a few questions about the victim and a business card he had in his pocket, and I might be looking into that just as soon as Iââ
âSturm?â Nick asked, interrupting her. âMandy Sturm?â
âYeah. Do you know her?â
âNot her,â he said. âNot well, anyway. Itâs her husband I know. Virgil Sturm. Good man. Works for the CSX railroad. Or did, before all the layoffs.â Fogelsong dusted off his knee, as if he could somehow get rid of bad news the same quick way. âHeâs related to Mary Sueâs family.â
Bell let a short but decisive length of time go by. âSpeaking of Mary Sueâhowâd things go in Chicago?â
The sheriff discovered the cuff button on his right sleeve. He pressed it with his thumb, then twisted it, as if checking to make sure it wouldnât fall off at an inopportune moment.
âFine,â he said. Voice flat, neutral.
Bell was disappointed but didnât show it. His business.
âOne thing.â Nick was speaking again, which surprised her. Usually she was the one forced to break the occasional silences. âI went by to see Clayton Meckling,â he said. âThe hospital heâs atâthe Rehabilitation Institute of Chicagoâis right downtown. Real close to the hotel where Mary Sue and I stayed. Spent a couple of afternoons with him.â
Now Bell was the one who looked around for a bit of busywork in which to indulge. She picked up a yellow pencil, one of several she kept at the ready alongside a short stack of paper on her desktop, and nervously worked the pointy end against the sheet on top. In a few seconds, the paper wasnât blank anymore.
âHowâs he doing?â Bell asked. She kept her voice casual.
âPretty well. Heâs a fighter. Not a surprise, but still good to see. Theyâre working him hard
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